


Werewolf Heart

by Unknown



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Berserk Derek, Berserk Stiles Stilinski, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Established Relationship, Healer Melissa, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Minor Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Slash, SO THATS ALL THE CANON IS FOR, Seer Lydia, Snake-Charmer Jackson, Witch Lydia, derek is the only werewolf, don't quote me on this stufff, okay bless, this was written after season two, weird history about the UK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:47:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5023528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unknown/pseuds/Unknown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His father is not a king; rather, he is the leader of several tribes that have banded together over the years and all live under one rule. He honestly doesn’t think of himself as a prince either; that would require him to have subjects and he only sees those his father rules over as his people. There’s a difference; he’s a person too.</p><p>His name is Genimbjorn of the Stilinski tribe. He’s a fierce warrior, one of the best in all of Briton. Amazing with a blade, skilled with a bow and able to kill a man with his bare hands, he is all of twenty-one winters. Tribes that are not allied with them fear him, the Druids whisper of prophecies about him and the Scavengers, remnants of long dead tribes that hold a grudge against the survivors, yearn for his blood on their swords.</p><p>He laughs. It’s a challenge he’s willing to accept.</p><p>The lone Stilinski son leads a small group of warriors. They are the elite, the people the lord of their tribe calls when he needs something done. They are not just killers; they are protectors.</p><p>They intend to keep it that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Werewolf Heart

**Author's Note:**

> In which I get sucked into the legends of the bearsark and this is what we get. I have no idea if this is accurate. Don't quote me on celtic myth/briton history. Stiles is a Bearsark and so is Derek. His dad is a Celtic King. Lotsa tribe talk. Inspired by the Warriors of Alavna series. Good shit right there, by N.M. Brown. Currently, its just a tiny short, one-shot. I may add to it later in life. But I wanted to get some feedback on the idea first. Regardless, here it is! And yes, some name and spelling changes have occurred, but that's for the idiotic purposes of this ridiculous story that I have written. Bless my idiotic soul. Also, the title is a song by Dead Man's Bones, Ryan Gosling's awesome band. Check it (and them) out.

_His father is not a king; rather, he is the leader of several tribes that have banded together over the years and all live under one rule. He honestly doesn’t think of himself as a prince either; that would require him to have subjects and he only sees those his father rules over as his people. There’s a difference; he’s a person too._

_His name is Genimbjorn of the Stilinski tribe. He’s a fierce warrior, one of the best in all of Briton. Amazing with a blade, skilled with a bow and able to kill a man with his bare hands, he is all of twenty-one winters. Tribes that are not allied with them fear him, the Druids whisper of prophecies about him and the Scavengers, remnants of long dead tribes that hold a grudge against the survivors, yearn for his blood on their swords._

_He laughs. It’s a challenge he’s willing to accept._

_The lone Stilinski son leads a small group of warriors. They are the elite, the people the lord of their tribe calls when he needs something done. They are not just killers; they are protectors._

_They intend to keep it that way._

* * *

“Where are we going?” 

He sighs and turns in his saddle to the man who’s just spoken. They’ve been riding only for a few hours and already there are complaints. While he’d be the last to say that the terrain they’re traveling on is comfortable with the saddles they’ve managed to procure, he knows his men are made of tougher stuff than this.

“It’s been three hours, Scott,” he says. Scilti of the McCall clan. The small tribe had joined before Scilti was born and, he and Genimbjorn had grown up together as the closest friends. Some even call them brothers. They no longer know the difference. Scott was a nickname; a shortened version of the area of Briton in the northwest where Scilti was originally from.

Scott has a pair of sharp knives strapped to his thighs, smaller knives hidden all over his body. His leather armor hugs his muscular body, making him seem dangerous until you look at his eyes. They’re large and brown, innocent in every way. He’s a charming young man. Also: a complainer. Obviously.

“Yeah, but still, Stiles. My butt is starting to hurt,” Scott responds mournfully. Stiles; a shortened version of Stilinski, and only a name that those closest to Genimbjorn could use.

“You’re ass is always hurting,” comes a voice from the back, the rider trotting faster to come up alongside Scott. “It’s because you’re a natural pain in the ass, McCall.” Stiles snorts. Jacsen of the Whittemore clan. He is, currently, the only member left alive. His parents had joined Stiles’ father years ago, but a deadly plague had ravaged their last village and left many dead, most of the Whittemore clan included. Jacsen, affectionately nick-named Jax by several of them, is the only one left alive. He is lithe and deadly, with pale green eyes and warm colored skin. He carries a spear on his saddle, but is fonder of his snakes than anything else. Jax has a pair of snakes around his neck at all times, even when he sleeps. It’s a miracle his wife can stand them. The Kanima snakes, their fangs holding deadly poisons, don’t affect Jacsen. Somehow, he had been born with immunity to the paralytics and toxins they carry. The serpents are loyal to him though, would never bite him, and attack at his sharp command of a whistle. He is not above using them to intimidate Scott. They all know this.

“Enough!”

Stiles smiles at the voice that interjects on Scott’s behalf. The only woman warrior in their clan, Elysian is a master of the bow. She is part of the Argent clan, a Frank originally, before her clan came across the waters and made their way to Briton. There, they engaged in a full out war with the Hale tribe, wiping every single one of the members out with fires and metal. Not one Hale remained. Elysian, named after the land of everlasting life for heroes since her mother was a Greek, is not proud of this legacy. Neither is her father. He had not partaken in the slaughtering of the Hale tribe. His family had been put to death when Stiles’ father had come to the Hale’s aid, and he had been spared because of his truth and disgust in the deeds carried out. His one wish was that they spare his daughter, only a babe at the time. In turn, she had been raised with the rest of them, in their castle at Eboracum.

Her hair is long, brown and curls in ringlets down her back. She wears leather armor and mail, like the men, because she fights just as hard as them. Stiles’ father had given her special privilege to become a warrior, one her father was most proud of her for.

She’s currently betrothed to Scott and those close to her that cannot grasp the Greek language call her Alyson.

“Jax, your more handsome when you’re mouth is shut; Scott, silence your complaints; and Stiles, if you have anything to add, now would be the time,” she says teasingly, eyes flashing with mirth. Stiles loves her; to have her marry his brother in arms and become his sister in a new way is more than he’d ever ask for.

“No, nothing to add besides the fact that my father asked us to scout out the lower forest.” He pauses. “Scavengers have been attacking some of the villages under our protection.”

Stiles is not impressive with a bow, or knives, or snakes. He uses his sword, a blade he has named Wolfsbane, to tear down his foes. The hilt is a knot-work of metal, the blade emblazoned with runes. Stiles himself is lithe like Jacsen, muscled where he needs to be like Scott and agile like Alyson. He wears his leather armor with pride, his shield of wood inlaid with metal strapped to his back. He wears a set of braces on his forearms inlaid with metal spikes to use as a defense. Stiles, unlike the others, wears no sleeves; instead, he bears his blue-woad tattoos with pride. His tribe’s symbols are etched into the skin of his arms, as well as knot-patterns of magic and symbols of strength. They swirl up his arms and spiral down his chest and legs, hidden under his armor and furs. With his hair spiked with lime, Stiles looks every inch the formidable war-hero he is. Most do not expect it, but then they catch sight of the tattoo of a mad bear on his left bicep. It’s a symbol that all tribes and clans recognize, if only because it is the same legend associated with the mark for them all.

The bear sark, or berserker, is known by all.

Stiles readjusts the bearskin that’s thrown over his shoulders for warmth and gestures for the others to follow him. They’re passing through a clearing through which a river runs through. During the summer solstice, the children come play in the cool waters, splashing and yelling as their mothers wash clothes. Now, in the cold months of the winter, the river is half frozen over, light dusting of snow on the tough grass.

Snow and blood.

Stiles lifts his fist up and their procession stops as he hops off his horse, patting it’s flanks in reward for a job well done. He draws Wolfsbane, the metal ringing as it catches the end of its scabbard, and walks forward, careful of where he steps with his hide boots. Behind him, he hears the others following suit, the snow crunching beneath their feet. They follow him into the clearing, weapons ready and come upon a scene of bloodshed. Scavengers lay about, throats ripped out as if by a wild animal, blood pooled, congealed and frozen in the snow around them. There’s a portion of the river where the ice is broken and beside it lies a naked man. Stiles inches closer as the others search for survivors.

The man is breathing.

“He’s alive! Scott, help me move him,” Stiles calls, sheathing his sword and crouching beside the body. The man has dark hair like coal and thick brows crumpled in anger or thought. He’s bare of tattoos except for an elder tree in the deepest blue woad-paint Stiles has ever seen, a moon entangled in the tree’s branches.

Stiles catches his breath. That’s the tribal tattoo for the _Hales_.

As Scott makes his way to him, Stiles gingerly rolls the man over onto his back, skin bereft of injury he notes, and stares in awe at his chest. Three jagged, diagonal slashes cover him from shoulder to hip, the ceremonial coming of age marks for warriors of the Hale tribe. His mind reels. They’re all dead, is the problem, but Stiles knows his eyes cannot be deceiving him.

“Stiles who is- oh gods, what the hell is that?” Scott yelps behind him at the sight of the scars. Stiles sheds his bearskin, covering the man up and hoisting him up onto his shoulders. This is too important for Scott to help and risk mucking up. He turns to his startled friend’s face and shakes his head as Jacsen and Alyson join them.

“We need to get him to my father,” Stiles says, making his way to his horse. He whistles and she meets him halfway there. Hoisting the man onto the beast’s back, he lashes him down, ensuring he doesn’t fall on the ride back.

“What happened here?” Alyson asks.

“What does it look like?” Stiles snaps. “Scavengers attacked and he battled them off. Might have raped him, too, if his state of dress, or lack thereof, is anything to go by. By the looks of where he was, he was making his way to our forts. Whether it was for protection or something else, I don’t know.” He turns to Jacsen. “Jax, go collect his things. I thought I saw a satchel, sword and shield back there. Scott, loot the Scavengers; anything we can use, take.” He swings himself up onto the horse. “Alyson, keep them in line?”

She gives him a worried smile. “Of course. Where are you going?” The other two men set about their tasks.

Stiles shakes his head grimly, saying, “Back to the citadel, to my father. This man needs care and…” He closes his eyes, feeling the rage come on. He wonders if Alyson can see it too.

“Who is he?” she asks softly when Scott and Jacsen are far enough away.

“He’s a _Hale_ ,” Stiles says, turning to ride off.

“ _Gods_ ,” Alyson whispers under her breath in horror.

Yes, Stiles thinks. Gods indeed.

* * *

His father has given him a proposition: when the last remaining member of the Hale tribe awakes, offer him a spot on Stiles company and train him. He’s safe, his father had assured him, if he pledges himself to their clan like so many others have. And it’s true; Stiles’ father’s citadel is the safest and most powerful this side of Briton. Their large stone castle in Eboracum, with its great halls, is surrounded by two thick walls, along with trenches on the outskirts of the forts. Basically, they’re impenetrable.

Stiles makes his way to the Great Hall, where he catches sight of Scott and Alyson feasting with other warriors of separate companies, Jacsen among them. He lets out a breath of relief; his warriors are safe. That’s his first priority, and with it met, he can take care of his next one: Speaking with the Hale. The man had been taken to separate chambers, clothed and put to bed. He hasn’t woken once since then and Stiles is beginning to worry. He himself had changed into breeches and a loose tunic, his sword strapped to his side. He went nowhere without it, knowing a battle could breakout at anytime, and now he is pacing in the hall, wondering if he should see what was happening or let it lie for the night.

“Excited?”

Stiles turns and tries to hide the smile that blossoms to his face. Standing before him, looking formidable in a green dress that shows just enough to be borderline promiscuous, is Lydowen, the tribes only banshee. She advances toward him, her eyes looking emerald due to the dress, her strawberry blonde hair looking more red in the low torchlight. Lydowen comes from the Isles to the west of Briton. She’d been found by Jacsen several years earlier, washed up on the coast during a raid, and he’d brought her back with him. Since then, the two had become betrothed and wed, and are now expecting a babe of their own. Stiles can’t tell much in the dark, but he sees the slight swell of her stomach despite the dress and lets himself smile again.

There had been a time that he had been infatuated with Lydowen, going so far as to give her a nick-name of her own and call her Lydia, a more feminine version of her name giving it the added meaning of small since he thought she was so petite. She’d known though, of his infatuation, and one night had let him have his way with her. He’d been sixteen winters then, and had flipped onto his back once it was over and done with and looked at the ceiling. Surprisingly, his only thought had been that he’d rather not do it again, and when he looked at her, she’d hidden her laughing face beneath the furs of his bed and he’d hit her over the head with an embroidered pillow.

“You knew?” he had asked, speechless.

“I’m an enchanted woman,” she’d said patronizingly. “Of course I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

That had been the first and last time he’d bedded a woman, and the two of them are the best of friends now.

“Excited?” he answers her. He shrugs. “Nervous. Confused.” He rubs his eyes, his head starting to pound. The anger had been growing during this past week. They hadn’t battled anyone recently and the madness was begging to come out.

“Is it the man you found by the river today?” she asks. Her face crumples to a look of sympathy. “Are you alright?”

“The bear wants out,” Stiles mutters, but shakes his head at her in answer. “Fine. And yes, it is. I have a bad feeling about this. He doesn’t make sense.”

“In what way?” she asks curiously. Lydia gets closer, a hand on her belly out of habit and Stiles takes a moment to find it endearing before answering her.

“He’s the last remaining Hale. They should have all been dead, but he has the tattoos and scars of the Hale tribe’s warriors. It doesn’t make sense. And the way we found him… unclothed and lying prostrate.” Stiles pauses. “The Scavengers might have raped him.” He lets out a disturbed sigh. “I’m supposed to recruit him but-” Stiles pauses and meets Lydia’s eyes. They’re wide and glazed over. Without another word, he helps her sit on the stone tiled floor as another vision hits her. She lets out a whimper and Stiles pities her for a moment before remembering she would hate for him to do so.

“What? What did you hear?” he asks the second she closes her eyes, shakes her head.

“The man, the _Hale_ ,” she emphasizes. “He’s… you need to go to him right now. Right away, Stiles, run!” She pushes him away from her as he tries to help her up. “I’m not the size of a cow yet, I can rise on my own. Go!”

Stiles scrambles to his feet and sprints down the hall, flinging the doors to the man’s room open. It’s dark, the only light coming from the large fire that’s been lit. Stiles softly pads into the room. To his surprise, the bed is empty. He pauses to be surprised at that when the door behind him slams shut and he feels the cold press of a blade to his back. Anger pushes at his skull and red threatens the edge of his vision, but Stiles swallows hard and fights it.

“Hale?” he asks. The sword drops and there’s a grunt. Stiles spins around to find the man leaning heavily on the door. When their eyes meet, Stiles feels something in him snap. Those eyes, Gods, those eyes are gorgeous – green ringed with blue spiked with gold. Stiles loses his breath for a moment before saying, “Are you alright?”

“Who are you? Where am I?”

His voice is deep and gruff, like metal and gravel rubbed together. Stiles likes it and raises his hands as he comes closer to him. He lowers them slowly, keeping them by his sides.

“You’re in Eboracum, a forted citadel presided over by the Stilinski clan and all those that pledge themselves,” Stiles says. “I’m Genimbjorn of the Stilinski clan. My father leads us. He’s instructed me to get your story and offer you a place in our tribe. What’s your name?”

The man snarls, “I don’t want to be part of your tribe,” and then looks away. “Derokatus,” he says softly. “My name.” He looks Stiles in the eye. “You may call me Derek, first son of the Hale tribe.”

Stiles swallows audibly. Derokatus of the Hale tribe, the fucking Prince of the Hales. How the hell did he survive? “How are you alive?” Stiles blurts, because his focus is frayed. He suddenly doesn’t understand why Lydia sent him to the room in such a hurry. Nothing is happening.

Derek doesn’t seem like he’s going to answer, but then he slides to the floor and sighs. “My father was our chief. He sent my siblings and I away with his brother and niece when the fires started. We escaped.”

“Oh, and the life of so few outweigh the many?” Stiles snaps in distress.

Derek glares up at him. “Don’t you think I thought the same?” he practically yells. Talk about getting off to the wrong start. “My father thought he could preserve our line by saving us. He was wrong. My clan is dead. My sisters died soon after of injury and my uncle and his daughter were picked off by Scavengers. I am nothing.” He looks away and leans his head back on the door.

“Why were you heading here?” Stiles asks, licking his lips. He has this feeling he’d been too hasty with Derek. The man looks tired. “What happened at the river?”

Derek opens his mouth to speak but then he’s jumping to his feet and snarling, “She did.”

Stiles has no idea what he’s talking about until he turns around and is faced by a Scavengers, her long blond hair curling down her back, blood and dirt smeared in patterns on her skin. She wears a bare minimum of clothing, knives in hand as she crouches low to the ground. The window is open behind her and Stiles is left wondering how the hell they made it past the trenches, forts and walls when two more Scavengers climb into the room from the window.

“So much for impenetrable,” he says under his breath, feeling the red wash over him. He’s worried about hurting Derek in his frenzy; he doesn’t know who his friends are when he’s in berserker mode. “This is gonna be fun,” he mumbles and rips Wolfsbane out of its sheath. Derek gasps beside him and Stiles turns to the man, knowing that all he’ll see are Stiles’ eyes turning red. He silently mourns the tunic he’s in; it’s a favorite of his and it’s about to get bloodstained and ripped. A pity, that.

Then Stiles cracks his back, throws his head back, and yells, letting go.

So. This is what Lydia had heard. Wonderful.

* * *

Stiles wakes up on the floor of Derek’s room. He can’t remember anything that happened after he turned away from Derek, but the fact that the man isn’t in the room with him is a bit worrisome. He feels panic grip him at the thought of Derek being taken.

The first thing to hit him is the smell of blood hanging thickly in the air. He’s hurt, he can feel it, but most of the blood on him isn’t his. He surveys the room, taking stock of the two dead bodies, both of the men. One looks like he’s been butchered to death, obviously by Stiles. But the other seems to have his throat torn out, like the men at the river. Stiles frowns before he realizes he’s laying on something. When he turns his face down, he sees that it’s covered in fur. He looks up and comes face to face with a snout.

There’s a wolf in the room, lying under him.

The startling part is that when it opens its eyes, Stiles recognizes them. They’re Derek’s eyes, color, shape and all, and the muzzle of the wolf is drenched in blood. It whines for a moment before Stiles immediately starts to shush it, petting it. He’s wiped-out, exhausted and can barely move, but he can do this for the wolf, no matter how uncanny its face is. He spots Wolfsbane across the room, stuck in a wall and winces. The poor animal won’t be comfortable around that at all. Which brings up the whole question of how the hell it got in and where the hell the female Scavenger went.

Suddenly, the animal starts to squirm away from him. Stiles can hear people come down the hall, knows that soon, the heavy door that separates him from the rest of the world will open and the chaos will pour in. He’s not back in his right mind, not enough anyway, to be able to handle that like a regular human being. So he panics when the wolf shies away, reaches for him and grasps at a front paw.

“No, don’t go. You saved me,” Stiles says hoarsely. He wonders if he screamed this time around. Last time, Scott and Alyson swore he didn’t, but Jacsen’s face said otherwise.

But then the wolf starts to shake and it looks to the window. Stiles follows it’s gaze and watches as clouds float over the full moon, blocking it out. The room goes dark and Stiles panics again, mindless for a moment as his eyes adjust, the wolf shuddering. Fur starts to fall away, clumps of skin following as the wolf rolls in place and quakes, howling until the howl turns into a scream and there’s a human hand in Stiles’ instead of a paw. He listens and watches as bones crack and skin rips, the wolf shifting from animal to man, and suddenly, he’s faced with Derek, skin bloody with his foe’s life force, eyes tired and a bit frightened.

The hand in his is squeezing back just as terrified as he is. What the hell is going on?

Someone kicks the door in. People rush in. Stiles sees flashes of red and green, leather and mail and long, brown hair taking up his vision. There’s a deep, familiar voice in his ear, a serpent hissing in his other. People are grabbing the two of them, but he refuses to let go. The last thing he remembers before he blacks out – yet again, his stamina is shit – is Derek mouthing his name and the words ‘thank you’.

* * *

Stiles is finally lucid enough a few hours later, but he refuses to speak to anyone. His father gives him a worried look but allows him to go to Derek’s room. He practically runs, craving answers, then stops short when he realizes the room is covered in blood and completely empty. His stomach falls to his feet before he feels a tap to his shoulder. He spins around to find Lydia standing there, unimpressed.

“I thought you were our warrior heir? Not very warrior-like,” she sniffs.

“Where is he?” Stiles growls. “And shouldn’t you be at council with my father and the other elders to try and figure out how the hell they even got in here?” It had been a shock for them all. His father had doubled the guard everywhere, all warriors on the lookout for the blonde haired Scavenger. His company had been forced to stay behind to watch over him. Stiles sometimes forgets that they not only fight with him, but also watch over him. It had been part of the agreement he made with his father when he was eighteen winters; the only condition he had to Stiles having his own company was that they had to guard him as well.

That’s going _so_ well.

“I’m with child,” Lydia says, then smirks. “Gets me out of a lot.” She starts to walk away.

“Where is he?!” Stiles yells.

“The room beside yours, lover-boy,” she says with a tinkling laugh. It’s at times like these that Stiles does not envy Jacsen as her husband. He runs to his chamber’s hall and barges into the room beside his. Derek is laid out on the bed, staring at the ceiling with a constipated look on his face.

“Derek?”

He gets a look and then Derek turns away. He thinks that’s all he’s going to get when Derek actually starts to speak to him.

“You’re a bearsark,” he says calmly, unfazed. “Explains your name. Genimbjorn. Genim of the bear,” he translates.

Stiles clears his throat. “Yes.”

“So you’ve heard the legend that there can only be one living at a time?” Derek asks softly.

“Yes.”

He’d been ten winters when his mother died. Stiles hadn’t understood what was going on, but she had been his mother and he had loved her with everything he had. His father had taught him that a man shows his emotions, but is not ruled by them. At the thought of his mother, he lets a single tear stream down his face, but that is all. He sees her clearly, dead on the floor, some kind of disease gnawing away at her insides, making her lose her mind. He remembers the first time the rage had taken hold of him, his young self screaming in rage, slaughtering every animal in sight. It’d progressed by the time he hit his first battle three years later. The rest of the tribe had found out after that. It had been hard to ignore when he had completely lost himself to the bloodlust and rage, his eyes going red as the insanity took over him and he slaughtered every man the enemy had. Stiles doesn’t remember what happens during his fits of rage; he only knows that he needs to let it out once every few days or else it would blow up, like it had tonight, and leave him exhausted and weak.

They’d called him a berserker, a bearsark. Legend had it that the spirit of an enraged bear or wolf took over a man in the heat of battle and helped him slaughter his enemy. With the right incantations, Lydia can make him impervious to other weapons. Still, he counts himself as lucky. There are some berserkers that actually turn into a bear or wolf during their fit of rage. And once in a rage, it’s hard to talk a berserker out of it, harder still if they take an animal’s form. Legend says as well that there can only be one on the Earth at a time. Stiles doesn’t know how true that is, but if Derek’s asking, there must be something to it.

“It’s a lie,” Derek says. “That legend.”

“How?” Stiles asks, getting closer to the bed. He doesn’t want to scare the man, but he can’t not be near him either.

Derek looks him in the eyes as Stiles sits on the bed. He lets out a tired sigh and extends a hand toward Stiles. The younger man takes it without a hint of hesitation.

“Because I _am_ one,” Derek says softly. He closes his eyes. “It was a gift prevalent among the Hale clan. Almost all of the original members were berserkers.”

“You can take the shape of a wolf…?” Stiles asks softly, amazed. He’s never met another berserker in all his life. To see that this man is one as well… Gods, Derek is every kind of contradiction. Beautiful and deadly. Supposed-to-be-dead yet well alive. A skilled fighter and a berserker who can, no who _must_ change shape.

“I don’t know why I’m alive,” Derek says softly.

“Maybe you were meant to find me,” Stiles says thoughtlessly. “Maybe you were always meant to. Don’t you think? Or something? Don’t you believe the Goddess has been watching-”

“ _Damn_ the Goddess,” Derek says with a bitter chuckle. “She watches what she wishes, not what she _should_.  She is of no use to me. My belief lies elsewhere.” Stiles has never actually heard someone discredit the Goddess, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s old enough to understand that sometimes, a man must refrain from speaking lest he insult someone of more import than he.

“Where does your belief lie?” he asks, curious nonetheless.

“Maybe with you,” Derek says, a smile twitching his lip up. “Maybe with your tribe. I came looking for asylum. If I join your company, can you provide that?”

Stiles has no wish to lie, so he doesn’t. “Depends on how you define asylum.”

“I define it as a sense of belonging and self-discovery. What do you define it as?” Derek asks.

“Um, surviving each day, getting fed and having a roof over your head, and basically doing the most dangerous things that no one else wants to do while risking my life for it,” Stiles says.

“Ah,” Derek says. He shrugs. “That’s almost like belonging and self-discovery.”

“Not really.”

“No,” Derek says with a wry grin. “Not really. But it’ll do.” He settles back in the covers, his thumb rubbing circles into the skin of Stiles’ hand where they’re still clasped. “I’ll pledge myself to your father. Now, leave me in peace.” He lets go of Stiles’ hand and turns his head. It’s the action of a man who’s lost too much and is failing to move on from it.

But Stiles doesn’t leave. This man has been through so much that he can’t help but feel for him. They’ve got a higher connection, he knows. They have a higher understanding. He takes Derek’s hand back and starts to rub circles into Derek’s skin instead.

“Let me do something for you,” Stiles begs, a suggestive lilt to his voice. “Anything. You _saved_ me. I owe you a debt. I owe you my _life_.”

“I don’t want it.”

“I don’t care.”

“This won’t make up for it,” Derek says, haltingly.

Stiles would be lying if he said that that would stop him from going to Derek’s bed. “It doesn’t matter to me. I’ll make up my debt to you some other way; just let me give you this for now. You deserve something after everything that has happened to you.”

Derek looks at him with sad eyes and nods as Stiles slides his tunic over his head, unties his breeches and lets them fall to the floor. He climbs into the bed, naked, and lets Derek roll over on top of him, lets him kiss his mouth. It’s good, and they both can understand doing it for the sake of release, for the sake of letting go for a bit with someone who understands why you need it. Stiles is no blushing virgin; in fact, he’s so far from it that he should wear black for his wedding feast. But he can tell that Derek isn’t either.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, it’s just a favor for the both of them really. But as Derek presses inside of him, hot and crude, burning and stretching him as he thrusts, their bodies twining together and becoming one, Stiles thinks that it just might mean something anyway.

* * *

“He’ll join us.”

“Oh god, what did you do to get him to agree to that?” Jacsen says the next morning. He eats a leg of mutton, and Lydia makes a face at her husband’s antics.

“He bedded him, obviously,” she says. They all stare at her, then at him.

“Lydowen!” Alyson says. “Let’s not embarrass the poor boy.” She winks at Stiles then laughs. Stiles likes that Alyson and Lydia can speak of sex and love-making as good as the rest of them, but right now, he sort of hates them.

“No I did not!” he protests.

“So you’re denying it?” Scott asks, genuinely confused.

Lydia and Jacsen give him unimpressed stares and he cracks, giving them a sigh. “No, I’m not denying it. But we did it _after_ he agreed.”

“So you bedded him as a… reward of sorts?” Scott asks, and Jacsen chokes on his mutton as he laughs.

“No!” Stiles protests, loud enough in the morning that a few of the other tribe warriors shoot him looks. “No,” he says softer. “He… well it was more _he_ bedded _me_ ,” and they all pause because Stiles isn’t one to take the submissive role, “-and it was just…Ugh. You know how I get after I go all… bear sark.”

“Ah,” Alyson says. “You needed the release, he needed the release so you released yourselves into each other.” The lot of them laugh and Stiles gets up.

“I will not be ridiculed at your expense,” he claims, walking out with a plate of food.

“Where are you going?” Lydia calls still giggling.

“See if Derek is hungry!” he calls back as he disappears down the hall. “Leave us be and go back to letting your husband suck on your teats.” He smiles as he hears Scott and Alyson’s laughter. Stiles knows he’s won.

* * *

Stiles goes to Derek’s room only to find it empty. Again. If the man keeps it up, he’s going to give Stiles a heart attack and a premature death. Instead, he finds Scott’s mother, Lady McCall, changing furs and airing out the room. He smiles at her as she turns to him.

“Stiles!” she says. If Stiles is being honest, she’s a second mother to him. When his mother had died, the responsibility to watch over him had fallen to her and she hadn’t disappointed anyone. She’d taken it amazingly well, and Stiles treated her and respected her as his own mother. “You didn’t come see me last night when you got in,” she scolds.

“I had an exciting night as I’m sure you’ve heard,” he responds, hugging her. He places the plate of food down on the bed and frowns. “The man who was here-”

“He left for the courtyard. Asked me where it was,” she responds. Lady McCall starts to pick at the food on the plate, and when Stiles goes for a leg of meat, she grabs his hand and observes the gash along it. She tsks. “You should have come to me. You’re all ripped up.” She’s a healer, though she’s not a full enchantress. Still, it comes in handy after a long, bloody battle. Many a warrior, Stiles and Scott included, had been saved by her healing hands. Stiles lets her work her magic for a while, though his hand had already been healing itself due to his bearsark curse, until he can’t stand anymore of the sitting and gets up, untangling his hand from hers.

“I think I’ll be on my way. Thank you,” he adds, not to seem rude. “But-”

“You need to find him, yes. Go on then,” she says, waving him off. Stiles leans in and kisses her cheek before he leaves. Then he heads off to the courtyard. Surprisingly, there’s a small group of his father’s men standing around, heads bent together. He makes his way forward and pushes his way through them. He can’t believe what he’s seeing when he makes it through.

Derek is shirtless, in only breeches and boots, and he’s got his sword out. Making his way around the courtyard, he’s going through the motions of several battle stances, jabbing with the sword and dancing with it as if it were an extension of his body. It’s beautiful, Stiles must admit, and he feels his mouth go dry. The morning light highlights Derek’s sun-kissed skin, his tattoos and scars standing out starkly. He makes footprints in the light dusting of snow, his sword catching the light as it sweeps through the white dust in an underhanded sweep. Sweat streaks down his body, beads breaking out on his forehead. He’s talented and deadly, Stiles can tell that much. Something tightens in his chest as he watches, and he walks away from the men, pulling out Wolfsbane. He’s seen how Derek’s body moves in bed; he wants to see how it moves in battle.

When Derek next swings his sword in a turn, Stiles parries it with his own.

“You’re talented,” he says to Derek with a smirk. Derek smirks himself and slides his sword down the length of Stiles’. Then he stabs at him and Stiles blocks.

“Not so bad yourself. Then again, I’ve been trained for battle practically since birth, so,” Derek remarks as he lets his weapon fall and slowly circles Stiles. Following him with his eyes, Stiles keeps Wolfsbane up between them.

“You flinched the first time you saw my sword. Why?” he asks.

“Its name. Its deeds. It’s slain many men and many creatures as well,” Derek explains. “Wolves like me.”

Stiles frowns, lowering his blade for a moment, perplexed. “I would never-” _Hurt you_ , he wants to say, but at that moment, Derek lets out a growl and attacks. Stiles sword is up and blocking in seconds, parrying blows and delivering them back just as quick.

“I know,” Derek says, and it seems like he actually does. “We’re brothers, you and I.”  Stiles knows he’s referencing their shared curse, but still, he pouts a bit as he stealthily crouches down, prepared for his next strike.

“You bed all your brothers then?” he asks. “Is that a Hale family thing?” There’s a smirk on his face, and it gets wiped off as Derek attacks, their swords sliding dryly against each other, bringing their faces inches apart. Derek’s eyes are wide and the black of his pupil slowly expands to take over his iris the longer he looks at Stiles.

“You’re right of course,” he answers Stiles, those eyes falling to Stiles’ mouth. “Much more than brothers then, would you say?” he practically whispers, and Stiles can feel the eyes of the other men falling curiously on them. “Bedfellows then?” Derek asks breathily. Stiles swallows hard.

“Only if you make a habit of it,” Stiles responds, then attacks. They end up on the ground, Wolfsbane thrown to the side and Derek’s sword thrown to the other. Derek laughs breathily, pinning Stiles down.

“Oh, I intend to.”

Stiles hooks his leg behind Derek’s, flips them over and holds a dagger to the man’s throat. He nicks Derek’s Adam’s apple as the man swallows.

“Prove it.” 

At the sight of Derek's smile, Stiles doesn't need Lydia to tell him how good the coming future will be. 

"Oh," Derek repeats through the grin. "Don't worry about that. I told you: I intend to."


End file.
